Parting Shadows
by Talleyrand
Summary: Human emotion in the time of Blight - an intimate take on the Warden's journey. m/m
1. Prelude

**Author's note: This is my first fanfiction. I realize the story of the Warden has probably been done a thousand times already, but I still hope I can offer my very own take on it. **

**I apologize for any misspellings. In fact, I would be very happy if someone could point out my mistakes - I am not a native english speaker and will likely need a little help with my use of language. **

**The story is mostly about male Cousland and Zevran, but it is likely that all important characters from Dragon Age: Origins will make an appearance. Some characters may not exactly behave like their in-game counterparts.**

**I have rated the story as M mostly for future chapters. **

** Obviously, story and setting are owned by Bioware. **

**Please read, and pretty please review! I very much hope you enjoy it!  
><strong>

**1 - Prelude**

The world had darkened. Even here, in the Korcari Wilds, where things did not normally change much. The great cities could fall in chaos or rise in glory; it was all the same to the multitude of creatures dwelling here. They were tangled up in the ever-steady struggle of primitive life, hunting, being preyed upon, a circle of ending and renewal. It was a place where one would learn the value of power. And in times like these, power was needed more than anything.

The witch slowly paced through the undergrowth. She knew exactly where to place her foot, how to avoid the dangers that lurked about. These were _her _wilds, after all. Patiently, she stalked the four men who had just come from Ostagar. The fortress towered high above the wilds, it's mighty walls a monument against time, but, it was not often that Fereldans would descend and set foot into the unclaimed lands. Certainly not in a time of Blight.

The four were well armed, but a rather desperate sight compared to the masses of Darkspwan that crept through the vicinity. They had to be of the Grey Wardens, the witch concluded. She could clearly see them avoiding larger mobs of Darkspwan, and intently making their way deeper into the wilds, where there was an old ruin, a deserted outpost of the Grey Wardens. She knew what they were coming for.

As the humans slowly approached their destination, the witch intensified her stare, still hidden in the thicket. There was something... odd. Her attention focused on the man who appeared to be leading the small group, and she could not help but raise a brow.

He was not an exceptionally tall man, yet he somehow stood out.

He was not the strongest-built of the four, but he had an inexplicable air of danger around him.

He was not what one'd call handsome, but perhaps only because one might be inclined to use a word more explicit.

The witch watched him as he recklessly assaulted a darkspwan, a blood-drenched blade in each hand, and with one smooth, almost dance-like motion decapitated the creature. A hunch of excitement rose in her stomach. She had seen her share of fighters, but this one displayed a certain grace and effectivity in his killing that made her lips fashion a rare smile. Elegance and death were not always as contradictory as it would seem.

The humans were now getting close to the ruin. No further darkspawn in sight, they sheathed their weapons and fell into a slightly more relaxed step. The witch, however, shifted in her hiding place and was getting just the least bit uneasy. She was not one for nervousness, but she had not spoken to any strangers in quite some time, much less someone who might actually be worthy of her attention. Soon, she would have to show herself. What they were searching for was here no longer.

The leader of the four unhesitatingly stepped into the ancient ruins, prowling, staring, searching. He was now very close, still being eyed curiously by the hidden witch. His face featured a strange pattern of stripes, a tattoo, bestowing him with a naturally grim expression, but his skin was soft und flawless. He seemed much younger than she had expected, although the impression of youth was somewhat contradicted by his sheer deadliness and his broad shoulders.

His companions followed him into the ruin. They were all quite young, but appeared at least a few years older than their leader, which made it all the more surprising how obvious their acceptance of his authority was. The witch felt all uneasiness in her body fade as she finally got ready to face the strangers. She found it much less tiresome to deal with men or women who commanded some semblance of respect and power. In fact, this could even be interesting. Yet it was not to be an exercise in social graces. It was crucial that she persuaded these men the treaties they had come for were in her possession, or rather her mothers, anyway. They had already discovered that the ancient chest which was supposed to hold the valuable documents was empty.

The which let out a soundless sigh. _Grey Wardens_. She could feel a hint of sympathy for them, always fighting and struggling against the odds in the attempt to save mankind and whatnot from oblivion and the utter madness that was the Blight. Surely, this experience must have opened their eyes and freed them from the merrry chains of illusions and self-imposed unfreedom most people were so eager to adhere to, especially the followers of the chantry. At any rate, the Grey Wardens _did_ what was necessary, no matter the cost, and this alone proved some deeper understanding on their side, the kind of deeper understanding the general populace was so distinctly lacking.

Feeling no fear at all, she stepped out of her concealment and into the sight of the supposed Grey Wardens, fully aware of her own beauty and the striking impression she usually provided.


	2. A journey begins

**2 - A journey begins**

The first impression his senses conveyed to him as he slowly found his way back to counsciousness was that of pain. It was dripping through the hazy clouds that filled his head, expanded into every corner of his self and, unnervingly, settled down. At first, it wasn't even a bodily feeling, more like a giant single thought that obstructed his mind. After a while however, it became apparent that there were actual body-parts connected to the pain, and although he noticed that most if not all parts were aching, the pain was now much easier to bear, somehow drifting into the background as more of his senses started to kick in. He then listened to the silence around him. It was... soothing.

Finally, his thinking became lucid, and the question formed in his head, the question that was always the first he asked himself when he woke up.

_Do I have to get up early today? _

He reflected on that for what seemed to be many minutes, but couldn't really make up his mind as to what day it actually was. Hopefully not someone's birthday. The last time he had forgotten Mothers birthday turned out be a remarkably unpleasant experience...

And then he realised that something was _odd _about that memory. Like it had suddenly become much more important, because of something that had happened...

A scratching sound reached his ear, causing his eyes to suddenly open. Light flooded into his world, and with it came the memories of yesterday.

_They are all dead. _

Skye Cousland remembered. He remembered how impossibly wrong everything was.

The nightly assault on their castle.

The hastily flight with Duncan at his side, leaving everyone alse behind.

His conscription into the Grey Wardens, against his grave protest.

The horrible ritual they called the joining.

And of course, the battle. Darkspawn in the tower. He and Alistair being overwhelmed...

He shut is eyes again. Maybe it wasn't such a good idea to be waking up. Maybe it wasn't a good idea to be waking up _ever again. _But in that case, he couldn't close his hands around Howe's throat and squeeze, could he?

"Come now, you do not fool me. I_ saw_ your eyes open." The voice was not unfriendly, even a little amused. The silky voice of a female. It seemed familiar.

Skye looked up, trying to ignore the dizziness that flooded his head at the abrupt movement.

"Morrigan?" His own voice sounded rough, sore. The witch was leaning against a bookshelf a few feet away from him, her face mostly neutral but for the slight semblance of curiosity in her amber eyes.

"Indeed, 'tis my name. I am thrilled that you would remember", she claimed, not without a hint of sarcasm. "How are you feeling?" Her tone shifted with these words, becoming strangely hesitating, as if she wasn't used to asking such a question.

The pain was still sitting in his muscles, constantly gnawing at his composure. It wasn't too intense, but rather persistent, carrying with it the promise of many more days in pain to come. He shrugged. Looking around, he noticed that he was actually in the witches hut, which he had just seen on what he thought must have been the day before, when Morrigan and her strange mother had provided them with the treaties. However, he did not recall getting here, into this bed.

"You were severely injured by Darkspawn", Morrigan explained when he did not answer her question. "But then, Mother had no trouble healing the damage. I suspect you are fine, although there will be some pain in the days to come. 'Tis entirely to be expected after one has undergone an immense amount of healing." She eyed him suspiciously, as if waiting for him to complain or whine about the pain. As he did nothing of the sort, she seemed satisfied, shifting on her long legs to stand more comfortly.

Skye remembered the sudden assault on the top of the tower. After he had claimed the unholy life of the ogre, thrusting his sword deep into the creature's bulky head, he had let down his guard, just for a moment. He remembered being so _exhausted_. And one moment later the Darkspawn were all over them, coming from nowhere. He _did _light the signal fire for Loghain and his troops, however.

"So, is the horde defeated now?", he inquired tonelessly. Although, to be honest, he was feeling so thoroughly fucked-up that he found it hard to even care.

Morrigan frowned a little. "There was some sort of treachery, I believe. The battle... did not go well." She shook her head. "I am not certain about the details of it, but from what I gather, the King's men and your fellow Grey Wardens were all killed. The reinforcements that were supposed to march in... never did so." She cast a curious gaze at him, a hint of worry in her expression, as if she was not sure how he would take the grave news, and then added coldly: "It was a fool plan to begin with."

Skye let his head fall back into the pillows and let out an unwanted moan. _What a bloody mess_, he thought. _How can everything go so wrong? _Apparently he was rather lucky to be alive, even in he didn't feel that way. "How did I get here? And what about Alistair?"

"Your friend is outside. He was not injured quite as gravely as you and has been awake some time." A little pause, before she continued. "I sent him out. He was worried sick over you, it was annoying. As to your other question... it was my mother, of course." She suddenly seemed uncomfortable, and the word _mother _was strangely emphasized. "I suggest you get up and take a bath, if you can." She pointed to an ancient-looking tub on the other side of the hut. "Mother will want to talk to you. She does not take kindly to unwashed men." With a last disaprooving look, as if she had somehow expected him to to stay perfectly clean while fighting Darkspawn and then lying in bed to recuperate from his injuries, she left the hut. Cool air swept over his skin, and he suddenly noticed that he was naked from the waist upwards. He startled, and quickly pulled the sheets over his bare skin.

Blurred imagines flahed in his mind, of naked skin in his arms, fiery kisses, two bodies pressed firmly against each other in his own bed. Then noise, chaos, an arrow out of nowhere, blood on the sheets, a dead body on the floor, the body that had moments before been his lover.

Skye hid his face in his hands and quietly whimpered.

After he had finished cleaning himself up in the worn tub - the water was, much to his surprise, pleasantly warm - he draped his body in the simple cotton garments that were lying by the bed. The pain was still sitting in his muscles, but then he couldn't help but think it was strangely _appropriate._ There seemed to be no reason whatsoever for him to feel good about himself, what with the world going down the drain and all. Finally dressed, although still without his armor which he couldn't find, he peered about the small room in search for a mirror. There was none. _Odd, _he thought, _two women living together and no mirror? _ He knew there were more important things to do than care abut his looks, probably anyway. Still, his thick, dark hair had a nasty habit of clinging to his head awkwardly when it was wet. It made him uncomfortable. Also, any reason to delay the unaviodable talk with Morrigan's mother was welcome. The woman, if that term was even applicable, had the most confusing demeanor and was equipped with a voice that would make a nug roast from the inside. Moreover she was a witch, a powerful one, or so it would seem. Of course, that also meant it was not overly wise to keep her waiting.

With a shrug, as if to convince himself that he didn't really care either way, Skye stepped outside.

It was a cool evening, but a large campfire was burning in front of the hut, keeping the cold away and painting the scenery in flickering, unsteady light. Skye immediately felt Flemeth's intense gaze upon him. Alistair was sitting by the fire, instantly jumping to his feet when he noticed him. His eyes were bursting with emotion, and he clearly wanted to say something, but kept his mouth shut, probably afraid to talk without Flemeth's permission.

"Ah! And here you are, our bold Grey Warden." The elderly witch spoke with amusement, but at least there was no sign of hostility in her tone. "Tell me child, have you yet refound your strength within the comfort of my humble hospitality? Have I successfully mended all the muscles and bones in your young, young body?" She let out her typical old-nutty-bat-laugh. Her eyes however, strong and ever so aware, filled with a semblance of hunger. Skye shuddered as he tried not to imagine what she might have done to him when he was passed out. Morrigan, standing a few feet apart from her mother, arms crossed before her chest, rolled her eyes.

"Yes", he replied firmly. Being questioned by Flemeth was beyond unpleasant, but if there was one thing he truly didn't care for, it was being toyed with. He straightened his shoulders. "Thank you for your help."

The witch burst out into what was yet another of her maniacal laughs. "Your politeness does you credit," she exclaimed, "but do not fool yourself into thinking that I would let you off so easily. Fortunately for you, it is not your gratefulness that I desire. You are not in my debt, for now." A sly smile tangled around her dry lips. "Let it suffice to say that I did not rescue you and your friend from that Darkspawn-infested tower out of charity."

_Not that anyone would have believed that anyway. _"Then why did you?" , Skye found himself asking.

"Well, you are Grey Wardens, are you not? The rest of your order are all wiped out by the Darkspawn. Surely it is not so incomprehensible that I would save the last Wardens, given that it was in my power to do so. This _is _a Blight, after all. Keeping one or two of you around might prove useful." Flemeth smirked and suddenly turned to Alistair. "And you, young man, do not be afraid to speak out. Restraint can be a wise measure, but to not use one's own vioce is folly. Words are the first power amongst many."

The blond Warden startled when spoken to, his deeply-troubled eyes jumping from Flemeth to Skye. When his mouth popped open, it seemed all the words he had held back before and stored for further use quickly vanished, leaving him speechless. "It's just... I'm just...I'm so relieved you're allright", he finally muttered. "Maker, I thought I was alone in this. This is so unreal..." His voice was hushed and flat. He apparently wasn't feeling any better than Skye himself, which was no surprise. The disastrous battle at Ostagar had him loose most of his friends.

"Do not let your grief get the better of you", Flemeth demanded. Her overbearing attitude was already pissing Skye off. "There is a dire task ahead of you. You will need all your strength. Fereldan's hope rests on your shoulders now."

Skye wanted to tell her that she knew the hell about his grief, but kept his mouth shut. Instead he tried to think about what she seemed to be implying.

"What are you saying, exactly?", he then asked Flemeth. "Do you really expect us to stop the Blight on our own?"

"What I expect of you is of little importance. You _are _the last Wardens of Fereldan. You do still have the treaties, I assume."

Skye's head was pounding. He had trouble thinking straight, as he was slowly beginning to understand what he had gotten himself into. Feeling a little numb and dizzy, he sat down before the fire and stared into the flames. The Blight was about to devour the whole country. And now the burden of putting a stop to the destruction had fallen to him, simply because there was not anyone else left. To him, of all people, who had never even wanted to become a Grey Warden. The conscripted noble's son, his family murdered, was to save all of Fereldan? He wanted to laugh, but even more he wanted to scream. He did neither.

Of course, there was also Alistair, but Skye had already learned that the blond man wasn't leadership material. In fact, the former templar recruit apparently liked following orders, and he had have no trouble accepting his junior companion as some sort of authority when they were in the wilds or the tower.

The weight that accumulated over Skye's shoulders, as he sat and burried his gaze into the ever-hungry flames, was beginning to suffocate him. He felt like he would be crushed if he stayed idle for one more second. The world was moving, but he had forgotten to move along and instead stayed behind. Something was pulling him towards his destiny. A destiny which shouldn't be his to begin with.

_Why do things have to go like this_? A purposeless question, of course, but he had always found it difficult to cope with the alternativeless of the present. It was almost as if he were but a machine, simply designed to react to the atrocities of life. Bad things happened, he dealt with it, somehow. Therewas no _escape_. The choice not to deal with it was nonexistant. Whatever one decided, whatever one felt compelled to do in the face of disaster and misfortune, one could never decide not to be affected. Not really, anyway, although some people certainly tricked themselves into believing they could. It was a fool's errand.

And now, he needed to deal with what lay ahead. He did not really care if it was a matter of fate or no, but a choice had definately been made for him. The taint was already in his blood. There was no escape from his own body. He had been assigned a role to play; a place amongst the order of things. The only choice left was to either accept this role, or deny it and face oblivion. Not such a difficult decision, was it? It made him angry. A deep, calm, brooding anger. It also offered a kind of certainty, however. The purpose was clear; to end the Blight. There was no need to ask questions pertaining the why, the who, the how. It was a simple necessity. This necessity was now beginning to fill Skye's mind.

Finally he freed his eyes from the lure of the campfire, letting his gaze sweep around the scenery until it finally met that of Alistair. The other Warden looked every bit as conflicted as Skye himself felt. They stared at each other for a while, their shared fate enabling them to understand each other without speaking. There was a question in Alistair's expression, a plea for support. _Are you with me?_

Skye nodded, rising from his cowering position and turning to Flemeth again. He noticed the odd feeling that the witch, who eyed him with content, had somehow been a witness to his inner predicament. Shuddering, he thought that it was probably best to leave as soon as possible and not stay any longer in the company of this unnerving person.

"Alright. So we take the treaties and gather allies against the Blight. Sounds easy enough." Skye's voice was more confident than he actually felt, leaving him surprised for a moment.

"We should be able to avoid the main body of the horde", Alistair complied. "And we should go to Redcliffe! Arl Eamon wasn't at Ostagar. He might be able to help us! Why didn't I think about this earlier?" It was heartlifting to see how quick he recaptured his hope. All he needed was to see his fellow Warden stand in resolve.

"Why, it seems your daring rescue was not in vain, after all", Flemeth spoke cheerfully.

* * *

><p>It was not much later when three ominous figures stalked through the wilds, their hands always at their weapons, their backpacks crammed with provisions. The Wardens were accompanied by Morrigan, who would lead them safely out of the wilds. It had also been suggested that she aid them in their further travels across Fereldan, and although Alistair seemed rather uneasy about it, Skye couldn't help but feel safer for the presence of a cunning witch, adept in almost forgotten magic arts. Still, the three of them were a pathetic force against the vast hordes of darkspawn that were now swarming the lands, intent to wipe out all traces of natural life in their wake. They would have to rely on their instincts as Grey Wardens to avoid deadly confrontations.<p>

They had been on their way for only some hours when Skye decided to set up a small camp and call it a night. The wilds lay covered with a dusty darkness, and there was little moonshine to ease their travels. It was Morrigan who had brought them this far, imbuing her staff with a magic shine to light the way. It was also Morrigan who lit the campfire and set about preparing a simple meal, while Alistair tried his best to put up the tents. They only had two of them, which meant the Wardens would be sharing one. It wasn't much of a problem, however, since they couldn't be sleeping at the same time anyway. Their Warden senses needed to be alert.

When Morrigan and Alistair had crawled into the tents, Skye sat alone at the small fire, trying not to let his thoughts wander. He felt a tension in his innards, a reminder of unbridled sorrow and fear. It had been there all the time. It would probably be there for quite some time, long after the pain in his muscles was gone. He tried not to care too much. He did not know how long he sat there, listening to the fire crackle und the winds softly brush the trees. But at some point there was suddenly another noise. His body tensed immediately, his hands reached to the hilts of his swords. Something was breathing, panting.

Before he could decide wether to wake the others, something nudged him in the side and whimpered. Skye let out a stifled scream, jumped into the air and swirled around with his blades ready.

Two dark button eyes, filled with the utmost sense of loyalty, looked up to him, questioningly.


	3. The contract

**3 **- **The contract**

The smell of freedom was the smell of wet dogs.

Or at least, that was the way it presented itself to Zevran Arainai when he first set foot into Denerim. The capital of Ferelden was as unimpressive as someone born in Antiva City might imagine; yet, if it wasn't for the smell, it would probably make for a fine enough place to be. It was the first time the assassin had left his homeland. He had known this all the time, of course, but he only really _realized _it when he was walking through the foreign streets. Never before had he been so far away from the Crows' heart of operations. It was a simple thought, but it somehow touched something deep within him. It didn't mean there was any chance of escaping, however. If there was a good way to escape the Antivan Crows, he would have tried it already. Their arm was long, and their grasp was tight. Fully trained assassins could never be allowed to leave their ranks lest they reveal their secrets and compromise their integrity. It was a life unchanging. There was really not much point to running away. He was quite convinced that even now, here in Denerim, he probably wasn't the only Crow. Crows were always watching each other, always. Even in the unlikely event that he could get out of the city unnoticed, they would find him in the end, and the mercy of quick death was unlikely to be graced upon those who had shown themselves traitors. The Crows possessed tools to ensure that one's fate was much, much worse than death. Having ended a great many of lives himself, Zevran was particularly certain about this.

It was a familiar trail of thoughts.

He had been taken in by the crows as a little boy. He knew no other life. His remorseful contemplations however hadn't occured before one fateful event in his recent past. Previous to that, he had always thought of himself as lucky. It wasn't in his nature to complain or be discontent with what he was offered, and since he figured that most boys with his background - orphan child, raised in a whorehouse - would probably live far less opulent lives, it had made sense for him to just try to enjoy himself. After all, being a Crow was not without its merits. As for the killing, he had always imagined that the world was full of people who were in dire need of assassination, and that there wasn't really anything innocent or soft left inside him which could be further corrupted.

Now it appeared that he had proven himself wrong. There was something inside him, and it hurt like mad hell. All the years he had happily thought himself to be a heartless killer, whithout doubts, without regrets. And then, suddenly his heart revealed itself to him, and it was tainted, scarred, forever lost.

At first he had thought to sneak away, leave the Crows behind and somehow get a better life, as if to make up for his devious past, so that his heart would be able to somehow recover. But of course it was to no avail; they would follow him everywhere. And, even worse, his memories would also follow him. The image of Rinna, bleeding to death. His own dagger cutting her throat. There was no running away from it. Yet Zevran didn't believe in tragedy. His fate was merely a set of events, one of which had led to another. There was no underlying sadness, no moral to the story. He simply didn't care for living with this hurt, so he had chosen the easy way out.

And this was why he had quickly volunteered when he first heard about this new assignment in Ferelden. Apparently some elusive Grey Warden was being in the way of the man in power, one Loghain Mac Tir, who, quite surprising for any Fereldan, had the means to hire the Crows' service. There were also rumors of a Blight spreading in Ferelden, which made the notion of killing Wardens somewhat odd, but then Zevran didn't expect to kill the target anyway. He instead intended to get killed himself. Or he had intended that originally. Now, as he was being led up the stairs to the pretentious estate where he would finally meet this Loghain, he suddenly felt a little less certain about things. Despite everything, the city _did _have an air of freedoom about it, beneath the rain and the canine scent.

He supposed there might have been smarter ways to put an end to his life; more immediate ones certainly. But then, the mere thought of actually killing himself would make his stomach turn. And the idea of dying at the hands of a fellow Crow was even worse. He swore to himself that, whatever the future might hold, there was no way he would give them that gratification. Dying by the blade of a legendary Grey Warden however was an entirely different matter. It would befit him well enough.

It was impossible to get out of this, he realized upon entering a large hall with dozens of guards stationed alongside the walls. Any second thoughts were coming too late. The Crows did not allow assassins to withdraw from their assignments. He suddenly wished he had taken more precautions, or sought competent backup for his quest. As it was, he would be facing the Warden and whomever was accompanying him with only a few dubious mercenaries at his command. It was a fine predicament if he had ever seen one.

His dark ponderings were brought to an end when his escort finally led him into the chamber where his client was waiting, his face hovering over a pile of papers and charts which were spread a large wooden table. There was also another man, standing in front of the oversized desk, staring at Zevran with devilish eyes. His glare was decidedly unfriendly, and rather difficult to return as any onlooker would be tempted to focus on the massive, threatening nose instead.

"Ah. And here he is, one of the infamous Antivan Crows." The man's voice was as unpleasant as just anything about him. It was probably Rendon Howe, a major noble of Ferelden, the man who had approached the Crows' contact in Denerim. "He will take care of our problem, my regent." Howe's cold eyes did not let go of Zevran as he spoke. "Or so I was promised. Are all of your organisation so... puny?"

Zevran wasn't sure wether he was referring to his actual size and frame, or more to the simple fact that he was an elf. Either way, it was nothing to get worked up over right now The assassin shrugged and said: "As far as I have learned, the best way to win a fight is to end it before it begins."

Loghain finally bothered to look up from his paperwork and seemed just the slightest bit interested. He was a serious man, his face mirroring the rich experience of an eventful life, and wearing a mask of permanent frowning, as if there really was no time to ever stop worrying. An expression frozen in time. His eyes however were clear and aware, and they were now piercing Zevran's own carefully practised mask of nonchalance.

"Yes", he agreed, "but unfortunately that option is no longer viable. The wolf is angered." He paused, observing the elf intensely. There was an obvious sense of superiority in his gaze, yet it was not exactly arrogant, or even hostile. As far as Zevran understood, he was an usurper of sorts, having claimed power after the previous king had been slain by Darkspawn. It was also noteworthy that he wore heavy field armor, even as he was sitting behing his desk, making it evident that he considered himself a soldier. Anyhow, his daughter was the queen, so his regence could be argued to be legitimate. Not that Zevran cared either way. The fereldan people had a rather enigmatic take on politics and monarchy. It was hardly his business.

"He will be on his guard", Loghain added.

"Exactly. I doubt your skill is is appropriate to this task." Howe clearly enjoyed provoking him. "Maybe we could get someone more... seasoned for our gold."

"A Warden dies like any other man, no? It is simply a matter of striking first. An assassination is not a battle." Zevran almost believed himself when he spoke. But he somehow knew, _felt_, that this Warden was not easy prey.

Howe apparently wanted to say something further, but Loghain made an authoritative gesture and shut him up. He seemed to have no doubts about the deadliness of the assassin. He probably had noticed the many daggers that were strapped to different parts of Zevran's leather attire. There were six of them, and not all of them were easy to spot. "Enough. I have a nation to salvage. Just make sure the Warden will not keep me from my duties." Loghain was obiously finished with him and redirected his attention back to the maps on the table.

As Zevran stepped out of the chamber, not without being eyed sourly by Howe, he tried his best to not feel proud about the confidence in his abilites Loghain had just displayed. He certainly knew he was a skilled assassin. But as things were, it was the last thing he wanted to take pride in.

Zevran was glad to be leaving the estate, even if it meant being out in the muddy grey again. The fereldan architecture was, like so many other things about this country, a stark contrast to his usually bright nature. Massive blocks of stone were cramped together, forming thick walls that kept the rain outside and protected from the cold. They couldn't really ward against the creeping dampness though, making the air inside musty and suffocating.

There was an underlying darkness in almost everything here. Perhaps it was the Blight, perhaps it was the weather, perhaps it was just as ist was. This nation was already getting under Zevran's skin, just like the damnable moisture was clinging to his tight leather clothes. And yet, there was also the sweet promise of a future that was not the Crows. It seemed to be a childish hope. Chances were that Zevran would be lying dead in a few weeks time, slain by the sword of a fabled Grey Warden.

Nevertheless, it was hope, and he dared not let it go.


	4. Alone together

**4 - Alone together**

The nights were growing colder. Skye pulled his coat around him and slipped a little closer to the fire, causing his dog to lift it's head in alert. The creature looked at him with big, glassy eyes, and then, deciding that everything was in order, rested the head on the paws again.

The young Warden was glad to be reunited with his loyal warhound. He hadn't talked to any of the others about it, but the long nights were straining and difficult on him. Although they had acquired several new tents while passing through Lothering, so that everyone had one to himself, there was never much sleep for him. Additional to his contemplative nature, nightmares were keeping him awake, and they were more intense and gruesome than he had ever experienced, filled with Darkspawn and pure violence. During the endless, dark hours that he lay awake most nights, it was more than a slight relief to have one of his oldest and closest friends at his side, even if it was just a mabari. A few nights before, Alistair had informed him with a guilty look on his face that haunting nightmares were apparently a fate that all Grey Wardens shared, especially in blight-times. Nevertheless, the blond Warden seemingly managed to get enough sleep. At least, he didn't have the same dark circles around his eyes, which made Skye even more grumpy than he already was. It had probably something to do with him being susceptible to nightmares; he had always suffered from a very light sleep.

As it was, he didn't really know wether to be more afraid of falling asleep or staying up. The nightmares were horrible, but his musings and thoughts at night were not much better. He had recently begun to vividly remember the scenes of slaughter he had been witness to at Highever Castle. And although most of his family was now gone, killed by Howe's soldiers, the most haunting memory was that of Dairren, who had been his lover for only a few hours. It was not like the two boys had known each other very well. And yet, the moments of passion and tenderness they had shared were burned into Skye's mind. They were of course inevitably linked to the horrid images that had followed, one of which was Dairren being impaled by an arrow, his naked body suddenly drenched in blood, twitching on the cold floor as life was fleeing from him. All traces of the comfort they had found in each other's embrace gone in just a few seconds. Even now, when Skye thought about it although he desperately tried not to, he felt a sting in his heart.

He was lonely.

In truth, he had always been a little lonely, feeling that his family, despite his love for them, were not the ones he belonged to. He was never cut out for the life of a noble and had been more than happy to leave the duties of a Teyrn's son to his older brother, so that he could spend most of his days reading and practicing his swordplay.

But they were all gone. It was only now that he learned the true meaning of the word _alone_.

His bad moods had clearly not gone unnoticed by the others, but he found it impossible to care. He concentrated on his grim resolve instead, his main source of strength, and forced the group into a tight march. They were headed to Redcliffe Castle, where Arl Eamon presided, mainly because Alistair wouldn't shut up about it and no one cared for his endless complaints. It was probably a wonder the two Wardens still got along with each other. While Alistair was grief-stricken with the death of his friend and mentor Duncan, a man he had admired and respected, and never failed to mention the deceased when it was somehow suitable, or even not suitable at all, Skye had never felt anything but resentment towards the senior Warden. Duncan had been the one who conscripted him into their ranks and left behind his family to die when Castle Highever was falling. Naturally Skye could see the reasoning behind those actions; the Blight was the greater threat, and defeating it the higher purpose. But he still couldn't really forgive, never mind sympathize. He had seen Duncan kill one of the other Warden recruits, Ser Jory, who had refused to drink of the tainted Darkspawn blood. He would have met the same fate, had he not complied.

Still, he had no desire to deepen Alistair's pain, or start a fight, and therefore kept his thoughts and his own mourning to himself. They were possibly the only two Wardens left in Fereldan, after all. It was unquestionable that they would stick together.

Skye sighed and looked up into the endless darkness. His constant brooding was clearly no good, but he couldn't stop it for the life of him. Just to distract himself he pulled out one of his blades and started sharpening it with a grindstone. His dog looked up at the familiar sound, as if he knew his master used to treat his weapons especially in times of distress and wanted to check on him. The mabari's eyes clinged to Skye for a few moments, infusing him with a sense of comradeship, but then suddenly jumped to something behing the Warden, who stopped his work and followed the gaze.

Alistair was there, standing in front of his tent, awkwardly shifting on his feet. He was just so far away from the fire that his face remained in shadow, making it impossible to read his expression.

"Oh", Skye that neutrally, "didn't hear you. Can't sleep?"

The other man stepped into the light and sat down on the other side of the fire, his movements long-winded. "Actually I did sleep. A little."

"Lucky bastard." The words were muttered and almost inaudible, but Alistair somehow heard them. His face turned into a mask of torment.

"Well, I'm not so sure about the lucky part."

Skye frowned but didn't know what to say. Although nervousness was pretty much the natural state of mind for Alistair, he was being overly uneasy this night.

"Do you think we have some cheese left?", the blond Warden asked. It seemed he could always eat, no matter what the time or situation was.

"Wouldn't know. You'd have to ask Leliana about that."

"I guess. You're right of course. Sorry." A long pause. "So, cold night huh?" Alistair wasn't wearing his armor, just one of the light coats they had been able to come by in Lothering.

Skye finally put down his weapon and the grindstone. Apparently it was going to be one of _those _talks. "Alistair, what is it?"

"Oh, well, you know. Just thought you wouldn't mind some company is all."

"I see."

Silence.

Embarrassed coughing from Alistair.

"Would you just spit it out! I swear you're like a child." Skye didn't mean to be rude, but he wasn't patient enough for endless stalling.

"Uh, yes, about that. You know how I never told you about my parents?"

"What? I've only known you for two weeks or so."

"Right. It's just, since we're going to Redcliffe, I thought I should tell you."

"Yes, you grew up there, right? But Eamon isn't your father?"

"Nooo. I wish he were, he certainly acted like he was, sometimes." The nervousness was now practically pouring out of Alistair's eyes.

"So?"

"I do know who my father is."

"Well that's nice. Is he going to be there or what?" Skye was getting seriously annoyed.

"That's not it."

"_Alistair!_"

"Alright! I'm a bastard son of King Maric's!"

Skye stared at him for a moment. That was certainly unexpected. "Oh."

"Yes, that's what I thought!"

"Huh. So you were Cailan's brother?"

"Half-brother, yes."

"Well then it makes sense for Loghain to want us dead. Specifically you."

"Don't say that! It's not like I want to be king or something. You have to understand that! I can't change my heritage, can I?"

"I guess not. So you would be the heir to the throne of Fereldan?

Alistair sat there with his worried-puppy look. "You're angry I haven't told you before. I knew you would be angry!"

Skye thought about that for a while. He actually wasn't angry. Just tired.

"No", he finally said. "No I'm not. It doesn't really change anything." He meant it. Certainly the news were delicate, but this shouldn't have any effect on their mission. Whatever Alistair was going to do after that - if there was an after - wasn't really Skye's business. Fereldan had seen worse kings, one could be sure of that.

The eye's of the blond Warden were suddenly lightening up. "I'm so glad you say that!"

"Well, I was nobility too you know. It's not a big deal to me."

"Oh, right! Right."

Again there was a long silence between the two young men. Skye picked up his sword again and continued the work. Suddenly he laughed out loud.

Alistair looked at him in bewilderment. "What's funny now?"

"I just got it! When I called you a lucky bastard, and you said you weren't sure about lucky!"

They both laughed.

* * *

><p>Finally, Skye managed to fall asleep in his tent, listening to the steady breath of his faithful wardog. Fortunately the nightmares that came later weren't of the worst kind. He could hear the Darkspawn, feel them like they were scratching at the inside of his skull. Yet there was some sense of calm overlying these impressions. Perhaps it was just his exhaustion taking it's toll.<p>

When his eyes opened again, it was still dark. A playful wind had come up, gently shaking the trees. Listening carefully, he also noticed the sound of whispers outside. Apparently Alistair wasn't up alone.

It was probably Leliana, the redheaded bard they had picked up in Lothering. Skye wasn't quite sure as to how she had actually come to join them, or why. One moment she was suddenly there, talking about the Maker and how she was meant to help them in their mission. She had quickly proven herself useful in the fight with Loghain's lackeys inside the tavern, and although Skye wasn't usually very trustful, he wasn't about to turn away a helping hand either. So far it appeared to have been the right decision. Leliana was now in charge of overseeing their supplies and her cooking generally met more acceptance than Alistair's. However, there seemed to be more about her than she let on, and the Warden tried to keep an eye on her just in case.

There was also Sten, a Qunari whom they had rescued from execution in Lothering. A hardy warrior, but not anymore trustworthy than the bard. His being recruited into service was largely Morrigans doing. It also meant that Skye, as the comander of their illustrous group, was now responsible for four lives - let alone ending the blight. Things weren't getting any easier.

He sighed and and struggled to peel himself out of the furs that he used as a cover at night, the dog watching his every move. He woldn't find sleep again this night.

Outside the tent the world was getting ready to face a new day. There was only the merest sign of light sweeping over the horizon, but Leliana was already busy preparing breakfast. Alistair still sat near the almost burnt-down fire, a slice of cheese in his hand. He looked up when he noticed his companion and smiled shyly. It was cute.

Skye nodded, but didn't say anything. He walked past the tents and made his way down to the little stream near their camp to freshen up a little. He shuddered when he put his hands in the gruesomely cold water, but still leaned down to at least wash his face. The chill swept away his sleepyness. It was strangely comforting, and he decided to take a short bath. Removing the armor again would be a chore, but the sensation of cold water all over his body was going to be worth it. However, he first needed to follow the stream to where it was a bit deeper. Also getting some distance between him and the camp was advisable, since he really didn't want any of the other to catch him naked, childish though it might be.

It took him a while to find a suitable place. The trees were now bathed in a shady twilight. The new day was approaching, but not really there yet. Skye felt instilled with a sense of peace and beauty and eagerly started to work on his armor straps. The stream was flowing gently, the clear water making gurgling noises. He couldn't wait to jump in and release his body from sweat and dust. He hadn't taken a real bath since the day in Flemeth's hut, and although this time the water would not be warm and there was no soap, he couldn't imagine anything more enjoyable right now.

When he was almost free of the chestpiece, he noticed something was wrong.

An eerie feeling rose in his stomach, his head was beggining to itch.

Darkspawn were about.

"Shit!"

Hastily securing the armor again he threw his head around, staring into the half-dark woods. There was nothing to see. The dusky scenery was as peaceful as before, but he knew it was a false impression. His senses were now tingling with alarm. Suddenly there was a voice shouting.

"This way, my boy! Hurry!" It was distinctly dwarvish.

Skye promptly started running, following the voice. His hands were fumbling at his waist, trying to get hold of his blades. Then re realized he had left those in camp. Terror filled his heart. The sound of little feet rushing over damp earth was now very close. He leaped to the nearest tree, pressed his body against the bark and held his breath.

Two dwarves stumbled into sight, breathless and with panic on their faces.

"Bodahn!", Skye called out. It was the cheery merchant he knew from just outside Lothering, and his son. He hurried towards the two, noticing with some relief that Bodahn held a sword in his hand. It was somewhat longer than his own blades, but of decent crafting. It would have to do.

"Messere Warden! Oh it is good to see a friendly face, me and my boy were just.."

"No time! Follow me, quickly! And give me that." Skye grabbed the longsword out of the dwarf's hand. Bodahn didn't object; he clearly wasn't a fighter. "We must get back to camp!"

They didn't get very far. Two Genlocks were suddenly blocking the way.

"Get behind me!", Skye yelled, taking a defensive stance and grasping the sword with both hands, while eyeing the fiendish creatures carefully. Darkspawn weren't exactly cunning, but the small Genlocks had a way of escaping one's notice. Better to just charge in and rob them of any opportunity to get sneaky on him.

Skye lunged forward, swinging the sword in an arc before him. However he was not used to fighting with blades this heavy, and the Genlocks easily escaped his reach, now straying apart from each other. It was getting hard to keep track of both of them.

"Alright", he muttered. "You pesky bugs don't think you're a match for me, do you?" He now held the sword parallel to his legs, pointing to the ground. Taking a deep breath and tightening his grip around the hilt, he sped towards the Darkspawn to his left. The creature readied it's blade in anticipation. But the expected impact didn't occur.

Just before their weapons would have met, Skye jumped, landing behind his small adversary, and stabbed backwards. The satisfying sound of metal piercing soft flesh reached his ears. He quickly turned and struck again, driving the blade in an wide arc from atop his head down into the Genlock. Tainted blood was splattering all over him, the stench of death rising in his nose.

"Watch out my friend!" Bodahns voice. But Skye had already noticed that more Darkspawn were closing in on him, and others still poured out of the woods. He was now in the state of deep concentration he only reached in combat. There was no stopping him. With a roar he assaulted the foes, his body now completely falling into the long-praticed routine of moves that marked his fighting, shifting between enemies, escaping blows and never losing on speed, while his sword cut through the bodies around him. He was as deadly as one man could be.

But there were to many Darkspawn. By the time five or six were lying dead by his feet, he knew he wouldn't last. His muscles were tiring.

"Bodahn, we have to escape! Now!" With these words he launched a last sweeping strike, driving back the bloodthirsty creatures, and then used the opportunity to start running. The dwarves were already on their way. But outrunning the Darkspawn wasn't easy. They were surprisingly nimble and didn't exhaust quickly.

When suddenly an arrow flew right over Skye's shoulder, the situation seemed utterly hopeless. He couldn't help but turn his head back, needed to see the horror that was chasing them. It was then that he made a misstep. There was a cracking noise and a sharp pain in his ankle. He fell.

When his face met the muddy ground, all he could think of was the blade that in a few seconds would pierce his back.

Instead, the world burst into flames.

* * *

><p>"Such a fool! 'tis beyond me whatever was in that head of yours when you decided to run off on your own, completely unarmed." Morrigan wasn't looking at him when she spoke. Her attention was still directed to his foot, which he was holding stretched out while sitting on a dislodged tree. She was probaly right, though. Not much he could say to that. Skye wasn't event sure what had made him be so careless in the first place.<p>

"Well, a sprained ankle isn't so bad if you've just fought a dozen Darkspawn", Alistair said helpfully.

"I agree!", Bodahn pitched in. "The Warden is a brave man indeed. May I express my heartfelt gratitude again? You've just saved the life of me and my boy for the second time!"

They were all gathered back at camp. The smell of burned Darkspawn flesh lingered in the air. Sten and Leliana were wrapping up the tents and gathering the supplies. No reason to stay here any longer.

"Morrigan", Skye said softly as as she draped his ankle in elfroot-bandages. "Thank you."

The witch finally looked up and met his eyes. There was still a hint of anger, but she seemed to be content letting it out by binding the bandages tighter than necessary, making his foot hurt. He squinted, but kept a straight face.

"What for? Killing Darkspawn with fire is what I've been doing for some time now. 'tis hardly worthy of note."

"Of course."

She let go of his foot and shrugged, turning away to collect her things.

_What a mess,_ Skye thought.

Even now, after a dire battle with tainted monsters, they couldn't seem to be able to establish some sort of emotional connection in the group. Everyone was shut to himself, dealing with the atrocities in his own way, displaying nothing more than a smooth surface to deflect possible advances into interpersonal territory. Oddly enough, there were apparently as many ways to accomplish this as there were individuals. Alistair would just apply his awkward humor, raising it like a shield and therefore effectively blocking off most meaningful conversations, whereas Morrigan simply acted cold and detached. Leliana, although Skye hadn't talked to her that much, appeared to be somewhat more subtle in her ways, but it _had _been difficult to get her to talk about herself. The bard had a manner of lulling one with her poetic speech and changing the subject unnoticed. Sten, the Qunari, wasn't less avoidant. It could be argued that not talking about himself was pretty much his natural behavior, however.

As for Skye himself, he knew he sometimes employed a layer of impervious confidence, trying to appear untouchable. It was more of a last defence, but not something he had been able to avert alltogether.

And perhaps it was right. Perhaps it was the most natural and human thing to do in their shoes. Every day could bring new dangers, and death was always lurking around. They were a coherent unit when fighting, but held their hearts shrouded from one another. It was so that they would be able to fight on unaffected should one of them fall. It made sense, in a way.

Perhaps it was right.

But then, there were also those fleeting moments of disclosure, like when he and Alistair were sitting by the fire the evening before. Suddenly there was some connection, two hearts no longer turned away from each other, defences down. It was fragile, but also precious. And then it was over so fast.

And perhaps that was wrong.


	5. Crossroads

**Author's note: **

**Sorry it took so long to get this story on track. But now Warden and Zevran are finally meeting. So the fun can begin, hopefully. Please read and review!**

**5 - Crossroads**

It was raining. Again.

After days of marching through the brown mud that was mainly making up the fereldan soil, Zevran was almost happy he hadn't bought those ravishingly beautiful leather shoes he had seen back in Antiva. They would probably have been ruined. Of course, he was wearing leather shoes right now, and they _were _pretty much indiscernable under the layers of dirt. But these were old anyway. The rest of his outfit wasn't in much more promising shape, however.

He sighed. His unfitting attire was, sadly enough, the least of his problems. The assassin and his men were now approaching Lake Calenhad, a rather prominent landmark on the map of Ferelden. They would set up an ambush here for the Warden and his friends, who were apparently bound for the village of Redcliffe, a bunch of houses and a castle by the lakeshore. This was only made possible by the fortunate fact that the subject of this mission was struggling with an injured foot, or so Zevran's scouts had reported. The Warden's progress was excruciatingly slow.

The rain was disgusting, but welcome. It turned the road into a treacherous mess of slippy and sticky sludge; exactly the kind of ground you'd want your victims to stand on when you were sniping them with arrows. Also, Zevran needed to cover himself with the slobbery mass, as his blond hair was much to noticeable against the dull backgrounds. For one to be an efficient assassin, concealment was the first amongst many requirements. And it wasn't really that repugnant a thought, considering there were surprisingly enjoyable things one could treat himself to while bathing in mud. Zevran smiled. If only it hadn't been so chilly.

The ambush was already set up. The archers would take position behind the rocks on either side of the narrow road, which was meandering and difficult to survey at this spot. A simple feraldan woman, seemingly in distress, would bait the Warden's group into the trap. Some mercenaries equipped with swords or maces would try to bind the heavily armed opponents, while the archers focused their fire on those less protected. The assassin, hopefully unnoticed, would sneak up to the Warden and let his daggers speak.

So far the plan. It should work on any ordinary target. But then, the Crow's usual targets were merchants, nobles or politicians. People with money and influence that had made enemies who also possessed money and influence. Elite soldiers with the sole purpose of battling the bane of mankind were another matter. Zevran knew that death didn't distinguish between the well-skilled and the useless, the high-born and the poor folk. A dagger in the right spot would always result in the termination of life. The difficulty lay entirely with getting the dagger in that spot in the first place, however.

So he was afraid. It was something totally unheard of; an Antivan Crow afraid of doing his job because it might kill him? Simply ridiculous. Or so they would have the world believe. Certainly the training that future assassins had to undergo was aiming at just that. And it was true in so far as the Crows indeed learned to disregard their fear of death. It was because they were shown very clearly how unthinkably miserable life could be, so that they'd be likely to come to the conclusion that death was not nearly the worst of fates. While this was probably true, Zevran had now come close enough to meeting his own fate to understand the perhaps small but vital difference between wanting one's life to end and wanting to die. The first was exactly what had been on his mind when he had volunteered for the assignment in Ferelden. The latter was something very alien to him.

In a way, he was not unhappy with how things had turned out. At least he now knew with a sweet sense of determmination that he did not want to die. And how could he? He had always, always been prone to losing himself in simple pleasures and delights, a clear sign of appreciation for his life. It was merely the shadows that were now crawling out of his broken, rended heart that had made him seek out death, death who had been a trusty follower throughout most of his life. The constant proximity to this follower had inevitably made him believe he understood, understood what death, in it's very nature, was. But such was the hubris that every human, elf or dwarf was capable of submitting to. Watching the eyes of dying victims become dull as the soul escaped them had not brought him any closer to solving this mystery. In truth, death was feared by everyone, because it was ultimately unknowable. This fear was so central so every sentient being that many even lost touch with it. Yet to be reunited with dread was not as undesirable as one might imagine. It was only a fear, after all.

In the very least, it gave Zevran back to himself. It didn't solve any problems however. The Warden neared. It was time to figure out who was the predator and who the prey.

The last hours of waiting passed in a blur. It was a strange sensation, time. Even more so when one was possibly heading towards his own end. The vanishing of moments, one following another, yet not necessarily connected. Zevran felt like stepping from one tiny fragment of time to the next, each of which were their own little universe, and unfortunately he wasn't able to hold his step. Before he could begin to grasp the sheer conciseness of a life's experience, his scouts reported the Warden approximating.

The assassin gave a few last orders and went into hiding. The plan would now unfold. Finally, time seemed to show the appropriate sense of humility, as seconds stretched into the unmeasurable.

When the Warden and his retinue entered his field of vision, Zevran immediately knew that they were not prey. This man, sprained ankle or not, had the words _predator _practically written all over him.

The first arrow was fired. Chaos ensued.

He heard the Warden shout a warning. Swords were unsheathed and cries of pain and rage filled the air. An outlandish warrior, tall as a tree, ploughed through the mercenaries, his greatsword severing limbs with a sickening sound. The archers behind the rocks were suddenly embraced by an inferno, screaming as they struggled to put out the flames feeding at their flesh. Smoke and dust hung over the road.

Zevran snuck up behind the Warden, still unseen, his favourite daggers ready to taste blood. When he struck, it was a moment of unveiled truth. Had he truly desired to die, he would not have needed to strike at all. At this point, he was simply fighting for his life.

But the daggers didn't meet their target. The Warden was faster than anyone with an injured foot should ever have been able to. Zevran looked into surprisingly calm, deep eyes. They captured something within him, and the last thing he thought before the pommel of a blade smashed against the side of his head was that it was truly an honour to be defeated by this man.

Then his sight went black.

* * *

><p>Seldom had anyone in the history of the world been more confused than Zevran when he assessed that it was still the same pair of eyes he was looking into as he found his way back from unconscious depths. If this was death, perhaps it made sense that one would be confronted with the last images of life.<p>

But it was not death. Nothing had really changed. Time still moved. His heart was beating, and it was speeding up at that. It appeared that out of the two viable outcomes, namely either he or his target getting killed, it was the third one which now presented itself.

Soon all his senses worked correctly again, and Zevran realized he was now lying in the mud, his hands tied to his back. Towering over him was the subject of his spectaculary failed assassination attempt. The Warden's look was still calm, but his expression grim and determined, and the tiger-like tattoo in his face did nothing to distract from this.

It took him a while to figure out that he was still in imminent danger, and that fear would be an appropriate state of mind. Nevertheless, some deep, overly optimistic and maybe a little twisted part of himself was quite thrilled by the thought of him lying totally defenseless by the feet of a man whose first and foremost quality was apparently to be dangerous.

However Zevran was also fairly pragmatic when he needed to be. He suddenly wished he hadn't smirched himself with sludge all over. If he was to be getting out of this alive, he would need all of his charms.

"Oh, look, the assassin's awake." A blond man in light plate armor stepped into view, his voice soaked with sarcasm. As if somehow assassins were expected to never fall asleep in the first place.

"I see that", his leader firmly replied. The Warden then applied a crude smile to his lips, likely meant to uncover his perfectly healthy teeth rather than to express friendliness.

Zevran's thoughts rushed around in his head. The Crow's training didn't really cover situations like these. If an assassin failed, his life was pretty much forfeit. Still, there had to be a way to talk himself out of this. He was an infamous smooth-talker, after all. He smiled back, only with more warmth.

"Well, here I am, still alive after all. I assume you want information, yes?" He paused, thinking intensely. "My name is Zevran Arainai. I hail from glorious Antiva, and was indeed hired to kill you. Allow me the insolence of apologizing for that."

"Oh that's nice." The blond man again. "You don't think we care do you? You were soo close to stabbing my friend here to death!" He raised his hand, indicating with his thumb and forefinger how very close he thought that had been.

"I can assure you it was nothing personal from my side. The man who paid for this however might have personal reasons."

"Yes", the silent Warden interrupted. "We know about Loghain." For a tiny moment his eyes were overshadowed by something astoundingly close to sadness, and again Zevran felt like something within him responded to the sad look.

"Yes, I figured." He remebered how Loghain had mentioned that "the wolf" had already been angered.

"The deal is this: we'll let you live, so you can go to Loghain and convince him that you succeeded. You will also be able to collect your money, so everyone wins."

"That's your idea?" The blond man seemed surprised when he turned to his companion. "How long do you think we can fool him like that?"

"A while." The Warden shrugged. "Would be nice to not have to worry about that for a bit."

"I'm sorry, but that's ridiculous. As soon as we speak with Eamon and forge plans, Loghain will hear about it."

"Forgive me", Zevran heard himself pitch in, "but I cannot go back." He probably had no need to be honest about this. He could just have left and gone elsewhere, staying away from Denerim. But then, there was still the matter with the Crows. They _would _now about his failure. He had just been offered a straw and was intent on clinging to it.

"How is that your decision?" The Warden apparently was confused about this. "Seriously. No reason for us to let you go if you're not of use."

"Let me explain. I am - was - a member of the Antivan Crows. Considering I failed to assassinate you, my life is now worthless to them. They will kill me as soon as they find out."

"Sucks to be you I guess", the blond one remarked. "So you're basically saying it's best for us to kill you right now. If we let you free you'll only try to murder us again."

This wasn't going very well. For a moment, Zevran was unsure what to say.

"I would certainly prefer being slain by a fine, mighty warrior to whatever the Crows might have in stock for me. I do have another suggestion, however."

"Oh?" The Warden seemed mildly interested.

"I would offer you my service. I understand you are of the Grey Wardens and on an important mission, yes? If you take me with you, I will assist in every way possible." Zevran wasn't sure what had brought this idea into his mind, but it made sense when he thought about it. He needed protection from the Crows more than anything else.

The man above him said nothing, just glanced at him with his unreadable expression.

His blond friend however let out a short, disbelieving laugh. "Now you're just kidding. You seem to be forgetting that you tried to kill us!"

"And you have defeated me gloriously. Surely it is not so hard to understand why I would seek shelter under your command? Or perhaps you do not know the joy of completely submitting to another..." He risked a dirty smirk as he felt he was getting back on track. The blond man frowned, but appeared to be out of words for the moment. The Warden just stared. But was there not a twinkle in those enigmatic eyes?

"What services do you have to offer, exactly?"

"All my skills would be yours to command, Warden. I happen to be an expert on a great many things, including leather and what one can do with it." And there it was. A smile. This time a slight curling of lips, no teeth involved. It only lasted a second, but it was there.

A deep relief suddenly instilled Zevran. He was alive, and he was far away from Antiva. This was his chance. This was his time.

A shrug. "Fine with me", the Warden said.

"Are you serious? You actually want to take him with us?"

"Yes, Alistair. You have a problem with that?"

"I guess so." The blond man looked more baffled than angry.

"I must concur." A dark haired woman appeared next to the arguing men. Her taste in fashion was disgraceful for Zevran's antivan senses, yet she was undoubtedly of mesmerizing beauty.

"Huh? That's a first."

"'tis entirely unreasonable. You have a mission to accomplish. Anything that could compromise success is to be avoided."

"I've made my decision." The Warden sounded impatient. "He isn't going to try anything if he knows what's good for him. Also, I don't remeber hearing you complain the last time we picked up a murderer."

"You've got a point", the man named Alistair admitted.

The woman simply shook her head and turned to leave. "I disapprove", she declared, as if there was any question of it.

Shrugging again, the Warden looked at Zevran. "I'm Skye, from now on your commander. Just remeber how the last time you tried to kill me turned out, and we should be fine."

He _did _remeber. Especially the time their eyes had first met.

"I am glad to be of service", he purred. "Now, I imagine you enjoy having me all tied up just as much as I do, but perhaps it would be a good idea to get out of the dirt for now."

* * *

><p>If his new companions thought that treating him with suspicion and scorn would make him feel worse about himself, they were wrong. Zevran was for the first time in his adult life effectively free from the Crows. He felt like everything was possible, because he seemed to have just proven that. They were going to come for him eventually, but right now that didn't matter. Right now, he was alive and well. Better to just focus on the present.<p>

The present however still consisted mainly of mud; it had dried by now and clung to Zevran's hair and skin like the scales of a lizard. The group had set up camp near Lake Calenhad, gathering around the campfire as the sun sunk beyond the horizon. Redcliffe Castle could be seen in the distance, towering over the lake, a grim shade against the fading light. They would still need hours to get there; the road was rocky and treacherous, and their leader needed a crutch to walk. Far on the other side of the Lake a strange pillar loomed, emitting a colorful glow. The circle of magi.

Zevran was sitting a little apart from the others. So far noone had bothered to chat with him. Alistair was occasionally shooting wary glances in his direction, whilst gathering slices of cheese for his dinner, and Morrigan had apparently decided to ignore him altogether. The others weren't really so bad. Sten treated him exactly the same like everyone else, which was probably good, and Leliana, the lovely redhead, even smiled friendly. It could have been much worse, he assumed.

He soon noticed that his own gaze was inevitably falling back to his new commander, no matter where he tried to direct it.

Skye. Even the name was fascinating. The Warden was absently fondling his dog's head, his injured foot stretched out before the fire. His scrubby dark hair and stubble together with his odd tattoo gave him an incredibly wild look. Zevran, lost in thought, gently touched his own facial tattoo. It was much more graceful and subtle, just as his hair was much more soft and delicate. He immediately wondered wether the Warden had other tattoos, hidden somewhere under his armor.

Suddenly Skye looked up and directly into Zevran's eyes. The elf startled, hurriedly redirecting his stare to the flames.

It was odd beyond measure. He was unable to comprehend what had just happened. Since when was Zevran Arainai _shy_? It was the single most ridiculous thing one could imagine. Suggestive stares were practically his best-developed skill. But then, he thought, it was probably a good idea to not test his own luck to much. He needed to get on the Warden's good side. Better to restrain himself, in case the man was easily offended. Yes, that was it. Restraint. Not one of his specialities, but it served it's purpose.

"You're dirty."

Zevran startled yet again. The stress of the last days apparently had made him jumpy. Skye was now standing and limping over to him.

"Ah, you know me so well already. Although that one's not hard to discover." The elf couldn't resist putting on a sleazy smile.

The Warden looked blank. He then gestured to the other man's leather clothes. "Perhaps you'd like something less filthy." He was clearly talking about the mud.

"Oh. Why, that would be favourable, yes."

"Come then."

Zevran was almost sure to have seen a hint of amusement on Skye's face before he turned away.

It was somewhere between night and day when he stumbled down the rocky lakeshore. The water reflected the moonlight. It was both dark and bright. Zevran had not had any trouble passing by Alistair unnoticed. The blond Warden was holding watch at the fire, mostly occupied with cleaning bloodstains from his shield. It would probably have been easy to run a second assassination attempt now. Skye had taken away five of his daggers, but had failed to notice the sixth and smallest one, which was well hidden inside his clothes. Alas, at this time it was no longer promising. To get rid of his only shelter from the Crows would have been outright stupid.

Nearing the water to finally get himself cleaned up again, he noticed a shape there and stopped, falling back into the shadows. A man was standing on the shore, one foot from the water, and struggling with his armor. The movements were somewhat laborious, as if hampered by a recent injury like, say, a sprained ankle. Zevran swallowed, but didn't turn away. He wouldn't have turned away for anything in the world.

As the Warden slowly removed the pieces of metal, his formerly sturdy shape was replaced, revealing the more natural silhouette of his body. His shoulders were strong and broad, but he was of a light build. The unfortunate darkness made it impossible to see any details. When Skye strived to remove his fur trousers, Zevran's breath was stuck in his lungs.

Incredibly slim hips and long, muscular legs. A naked body against the moonlight.

The elf had to contain himself. He wished nothing more than to shout that the man might please, in the Maker's name, turn around, so he could see his front. But he stayed quiet.

The Warden walked into the water, limping.

Zevran finally found it in himself to head back to camp. He didn't hurry. Something in his groin was pressing against his tight leather clothes.

It was mind-boggling. He had shared his bed, and not only his bed, with enough lovers to make one believe he had seen it all. And yet here he was, behaving like a teenager. Not that he minded being aroused by the Warden. One would have to be blind no to be. But all this skulking about seemed rather immature.

Reaching camp, he was beginning to get careless. He just wanted to slide into his tent.

"Hey, you!" Alistair was apparently finished with his shield and, for once, watchful.

In the morning the blond Warden, of course, told his commander about Zevran's nightly activities. He accused him of having been down by the lake, as if that were the most suspicious thing one could possibly do. Skye listened with interest.

"Was he now?" His eyes drilled into Zevran's, with a look irrecognizable and utterly mysterious.


	6. Beyond death and time

**6 - Beyond death and time**

Redcliffe was the most desolate place, yet it was lovely in the sense of a painting; one could be terrified by the bleak scenery and still admire the beauty of the picture as a whole.

The rigid settlement, sitting comely between rocks and hills, pushed gently against the lakeshore, abounded in hopelessness. Doors were barred, windows closed, the streets emptied of everyday life and filled with anticipation. Death was no stranger here. The air tasted of stillness. Up on the cliffs, overshadowing the entire town, lay the castle, grim and forbidding. It seemed to be asleep, or taken out of time.

When Skye and the others approached the village, a lone guard ran towards them in excitement, his arms waving rapidly, like two independent creatures that endeavoured to get away from his body.

"Finally!", the man exclaimed breathlessly, his gaze unsteady. "Have you come to help us?"

"Calm down!" Having dealt with his father's guards his entire life, Skye automatically fell into his authoritative tone. It seemed to work. "Now explain yourself."

"We're being overrun! Strange creatures attack us every night... we've sent for help! Are you the reinforcements?"

"Maker", Alistair said tonelessly, "the Blight's already here?"

The guard stared at them with big eyes, struggling with himself, waiting for someone to tell him that everything was going to be all right. Of course, it probably wasn't. It never was.

"Relax. We're here to help." Skye didn't know what else to say. He was disheartened and endlessy tired. He hadn't really slept in days. He hadn't expected to find Redcliffe in distress, which was probably his own oversight. Nothing was all right. And still, it was in his nature to comfort the other man, a complete stranger. He was just a guard, after all. Skye, on the other hand, was already carrying the weight of Ferelden's future. Why not add the problems of a few villagers?

It was apparently his thing, making other people's problems his own, taking responsibility for them, setting their worlds right. As if his quest to halt the Blight wasn't enough, he was picking up questionable individuals left and right and took them under his protection. It was as though he deliberately tried to accumulate so much pressure on him that eventually it had to break him. But then, it never did. He just went on, fixing the mess that was Thedas. And he couldn't stand watching other people struggle with their fate. He just didn't trust them to cope with it, didn't trust them to endure. It was much easier, and in some way even safer, to release them of their woes by simply taking over. After all, he already had so much on his plate it shouldn't make any difference.

The most troubling part was, he wasn't sure why he did it. He'd always thought of himself as a thoughtful and very considerate person, and still liked to think of himself that way. But the truth was, in the last days he had mostly acted out of instict and need. He needed things to be all right, needed to put an end to the suffering, needed to make a stand against the violence. He needed to see that something could be done.

And now, there was the elf.

Skye knew how incomprehensible it must have seemed to his companions. After all, he had taken a man under his command that had shortly before tried to kill him. But they didn't know the first thing about it, really. There was simply no way he would have taken his blade and ended this unknown life while it was lying defenseless by his feet. Slaughtering Darkspawn was one thing. Humans or elves or dwarves were something very different, particularly when they were so... fragile.

Of course, he probably should have just let the assassin walk away. He hadn't found it in him however to leave the foreign man to his fate, all on his own in a Blightland. That wasn't the kind of world he wished to live in. At least, that was what he tried to believe had been his reasoning. If he had pondered about it longer, he might have had found that Zevran's chances of survival were probably higher alone.

But now Skye had to wonder if he'd been played and reminded himself constantly to watch his back, as to not find himself impaled by a dagger when he wasn't looking. Whenever he glanced to Zevran the elf appeared to be perfectly incospicuous and generally minding his business, although he could have sworn to have felt his stare at him, which was oddly distracting.

Moreover, he invariably started to fell more relaxed when listening to the elf's idle chatter with Leliana or Alistair, and sometimes even found himself watching him dreamily. The long blond hair, the delicate features of his face, the simple elegance of his movements... Why would an assassin be so damn _beautiful_? It seemed awfully devious.

Skye sighed and quickly glimpsed at Zevran while he lead his group through Redcliffe Village, trying not to think about Dairren, about kisses and embraces and sweat on heated skin, and death.

It did not work.

* * *

><p>Inside the village's chantry the air was cool and soothing, and it was quiet save for the whimpers of the injured and the occasional prayer. The sensation of sorrow and desperation was prominent here, and Skye hesitated before stepping further in.<p>

Alistair apparently spotted someone familiar. "Teagan!", he exclaimed, hurrying towars a middle-aged man who seemed to be in charge.

"Alistair? By the maker... it is you!" The man's eyes widened in surprise, but there was relief in his voice.

"Yes, uncle."

"It is truly good to see you. How did you...?" Teagan did not finish the sentence. He lowered his gaze in worry. "I had not expected to see you again."

Skye walked up to the two men.

"Ummh, Teagan", Alistair started, beginning his awkward shifting, "this is Skye. A friend of mine. We're here because... I mean we're not... we're Grey Wardens." He paused, looking to Skye. "This is Bann Teagan, Eamon's brother, my, err... uncle... I mean not really but..."

"I get it."

"You're a cousland", Teagan said. It was not a question. His face was a mere mask of confusion.

"Yes. We need to speak to the Arl." It was blunt, but the Blight certainly didn't care about courtesy.

Teagan however didn't appear to be willing to follow so quickly.

"So, you're a Warden, then?", he asked Alistair.

"Yes, uncle."

"It is you Loghain has been warning us about?"

"I suppose he would do that, yes." The blond Warden looked to his feet, grimacing.

Teagan shook his head. "That bastard." He raised his hands and covered his face for a few seconds, as if to hide from the world. "I fear you have come at a difficult time." His vioce was muffled as rubbed his palms over his eyes and nose. "We are in grave trouble. If only Eamon were well."

"How is he? Is he ill?", Alistair asked anxiously.

"I do not know. Something evil has befallen him. He's been asleep for weeks, and now the castle is overrun with dark creatures. Every night they attack the village." The desperation and horror in these words was easily audible, sending a shiver over Skye's skin.

"Is it the Blight?"

"I don't think so. But it is just as tainted. We are fighting the dead themselves."

"The corpses rise?" Morrigan stepped forth, joining their discussion, not wasting time with introductions. "There will likely be a demon involved, then. They make lesser spirits inhabit dead bodies."

A moment of silence. Teagan looked even more worried than before, which was remarkable. He was a man of significant facial expressions.

"So how come you haven't evacuated the village?", Skye demanded to know. It was the most obvious question, to his mind.

"It won't let us." The Bann gazed at him indignantly. "I'm afraid we might not make it through the night. The people are loosing their hope."

"Fools." Morrigan crossed her arms before her chest. "'tis precisely what the demon is waiting for."

For the duration of one short breath it looked like Teagan was going to yell at her, but then the tiredness won over his face again, washing the anger away. He instead turned to Alistair, a plea in his eyes.

"Alistair. I must ask you... will you stand with us tonight? We _need _your help!"

"Of course I want to help you. But it's not really my decision..."

Skye was somehow disappointed. He'd expected Alistair to be more passionate about this, to maybe for once decide something on his own. But as it was, all eyes were soon lying on him. He wondered what exactly had happened that made people look to him for leadership and judgement. Was it just his noble heritage? He still remebered how his mother used to berate him for his supposed indifference towards a Teyrn's duties. Now it appeared that she had been right when she had told him that his destiny was to lead others. But then, she had always been right about everything. The really surprising part was how people practically begged him to take the lead.

He looked around, feeling a dozen gazes resting upon him in anticipation. His hesitation only served to make the whole situation even more unbearable. He thought that, maybe, if he had just been able to take all the expectations, time would not rush by as it seemed to do now and he would actually have had the opportunity to think about things. But as it was, his mind was blank, save for the pressing need to not crush people's hopes. Then his eyes met those of Zevran, who was leaning against the wall near the entrance, and he noticed that the elf's stare was different from all the others in the chantry. There was no expectation there. He did not expect Skye to weigh the life of a couple of dozen villagers against, possibly, the future of a whole country. He just watched, as if he knew there was no right and no wrong in this. And was there not, perchance, a hint of compassion in those eyes? Involuntarily, Skye felt a faint connection of sorts, an ethereal bridge between two unthinkably different worlds. Zevran appeared to be utterly aware of the dilemma the Warden found himself in, and he didn't pretend there was some easy way out. The others however seemed to have made up their mind already, like AIistair, who was clearly asking him to aid the villagers in their plight.

In the end, it really wasn't that much of a question. Skye knew very well that he wouldn't walk away and turn his back to those in need. Even if he wanted to, because the Blight demanded it, because Ferelden could not afford to lose him and Alistair to some crazed demon. He simply wasn't thatstrong.

"Yes, we'll fight with you", he finally said,

The relief on the faces of both Teagan and Alistair was evident, as was Morrigan's displeasure.

"What a fine idea", she spewed. "I suppose the Darkspawn are a minor matter now? I wonder if mother knew she rescued such a heroic hothead."

"Look, I can't make you stay and fight with us." Skye talked as dispassionately as he could. "If you think this is too dangerous, you can leave."

"Is that so?" The witch was suspiciously quiet, her eyes gleaming. "I am only being practical. You keep endangering your mission with these short-sighted decisions of yours, and I felt compelled to point that out. If you indeed need to prove your mettle, be my guest. Be assured that I have faced worse than demons and know how to protect myself. Do you claim the same?" She did not wait for his reply, leaving the chantry with angered steps, but not hurriedly.

When the mighty doors closed behind her, something seemed to enter the room, something that could not have breathed while she was present, like an air of serenity and piety, causing a great many of the people inside to shuffle in relaxation, as if a heavy weight had been lifted off their shoulders. An inaudible, collective sigh swept over the cold stone as they quickly tried to forget the talk about demons. Skye himself was unsure what to feel. Technically, Morrigan was not at all wrong. Still, he had done as he had been asked; he had made a decision, and it was the only decision he was capable of, so he needed not feel guilty. He did feel… something, however. Helplessly, he looked around, searching for Zevran's eyes again, without knowing why. But the elf held his gaze turned away.

"Thank you", he heard Teagan say. "Together, we stand a chance. I know it." The man still had a rather desperate expression on his otherwise handsome face, but seemed to be a little more grounded now. He carried on, suggesting that they speak to the mayor of Redcliffe to coordinate the plans for defending the village, and possibly lift the morale of the militia, but Skye was hardly listening. He suddenly felt utterly tired and exhausted, his legs were trembling with weakness. If he was supposed to fight this evening, he would need to rest. Mumbling some excuse, he left Alistair to deal with his uncle and went outside, where for once the sun was actually doing it's best to pierce through the ever-lingering layer of clouds above Ferelden. For a while he just stood there, exposing his face and armored body to the sunlight, revelling in the warm but light embrace.

"You look terrible", a seemingly careless voice behind him said. "In my own interest, I must advise you to get some rest."

Skye turned around to Zevran and couldn't suppress a frown. "Your own interest?"

"It has come to my attention you protect those in your service, yes? I would want you to be at the best of your ability then, should it come to battle."

That was quite the point. It was disturbing how everyone relied on him to be strong. For a moment, Skye felt in all painful awareness that he needed to show someone, anyone, his weakness. Yet he could not, lest his small group of followers would break apart. Zevran in particular was a delicate matter. He really shouldn't let the man who tried to kill him for money know that he was anything but invincible. Astonishingly, looking into those deep and oddly honest eyes, he wanted to do just that, wanted nothing more. The elf still smiled, bathing him in attentive and curious gazes.

"I expect the same of you. So you best go and prepare." Skye assessed with content that he was still able to pull out his authoritative tone when needed, even if he felt tired to no end.

"As you command, my Warden", Zevran replied smoothly, not without giving him another long stare, which only served to make him even more nervous. He remembered how Alistair had told him early this morning that the assassin had been creeping around the lakeside at night. Skye had taken a cold bath in the darkness, leaving his armor in the sand, being unwary. He reminded himself, again, to be more watchful in the future.

However, he also could not help but notice he really wanted to believe that Zevran wasn't a danger to him anymore, that he held no allegiance to his former employers and just wanted to get by. But then, he wasn't sure what that would imply. What had the elf been doing, down by the lake, if not plotting to murder him?

A thoroughly unsettling feeling stirred in his belly, a tickle, not unlike how it felt when he was falling in his dreams. Could it be that Zevran had actually seen him at night? And why was he still alive, then?

He really needed to find out what the man was up to.

* * *

><p>A little later Skye had gathered his group in the local tavern, where they treated themselves to food and drinks. The owner of the place was a sleazy man, trying to make his profit even in the gravest of times, and completely unable to be reasoned with. Skye had tried to talk to him, but after a few sentences had found it unbearable. He instead had slammed one of his blades into the wood of the bar table and grinned dangerously, illustrating how much he intended to pay for supplies and lodging. The man had then, hesitatingly, complied. Alistair however had blushed and given him concerned looks.<p>

Skye didn't care much. He wanted to prepare for the nightly assault. But even more, he wanted to have a quiet word with Zevran.

When the opportunity presented itself – Alistair was busy, because the travern's storage had contained some orlesian cheese, and Morrigan was silently frowning into the shadows while Leliana entertained the whole room, including Sten and the dog, with stories – he sat down in the far corner and indicated the elf to follow him.

Much to his frustration, he felt nervous when Zevran neared, his eyes resting on him with unveiled curiousness.

"My Warden?"

"I'm not yours", he spat back. It wasn't what he wanted to say at all; the words just fell out of his mouth, although he didn't know how they had gotten there in first place.

"I apologize", Zevran said quickly, sounding sincere.

Angry with himself, Skye pressed his lips together tightly and grabbed the hilts of his swords, desperate to hold on to something. "Look", he said quietly, "just drop the act will you? You tried to kill me, you failed, I let you live. Doesn't mean I trust you, get it?" He watched with a small measure of satisfaction how the face opposite of him changed from a smile to a blank stare. His own belly, for reasons utterly beyond his grasp, seemed to cramp.

"I understand."

"I don't think you do. If you still wish to kill me, I suggest you do it soon, and we'll see if this time you're fast enough."

Zevran blinked and appeared to be strangely desperate for a moment, until he regained his composure, and his nonchalance returned.

"I do not whish to kill you. I already explained that."

"So why are you travelling with us? Do you get that we're on a quest that will most likely get all of us killed?"

"I do."

"So get the hell out of here! This is the Blight. Run while you can!" Skye was now getting louder, but it wasn't clear to him whether he was actually angry, and if so, why.

"If that is what you wish, that is what I'll do, certainly. However I swore to serve you for sparing my life, and I intend to stay true to that promise. So if it's all the same to you, I'd rather stay."

"Whatever." Skye leaned back in his seat, and he felt his devious grin conquer his face, slowly uncovering his teeth. "Let me make this clear again. I do not take kindly to treason. If I find out you're playing me, it won't end good for you. So perhaps you'd better figure out a way to prove your loyalty."

Zevran's face was now completely unmoving, the face of the void. But his eyes could not conceal themselves, could not escape Skye's reach, who was almost certain there was a trace of fear in them. And Skye's own body responded, tying a knot around his chest. He didn't enjoy this. It was in fact making him feel ill. And yet it was necessary.

"And what exactly where you doing last night?"

"I was simply getting myself cleaned up", the elf answered after a tense pause.

"Did you happen to see me, down at the lake?" Again, the eerie tickle in his stomach.

"No." Zevran appeared to be surprised. "Naturally I thought you were asleep."

"I don't sleep", Skye hissed through closed teeth. "So don't try to sneak up on me, ever."

He felt nausea flooding all of his body when the elf left the table, although it was a relief to not have to look into these unbelievably deep eyes any more. He watched the lean body, now dressed in tight fereldan leather armor which only differentiated itself from the antivan clothes through being less fanciful, walk back to the bar, and immediately found the graceful movements and elegant posture captivating. How could one single man be so confusing?

Skye suddenly realized that Morrigan was staring at him from the other side of the room. He didn't think she could have heard his conversation with Zevran, but then she was a witch, and it was impossible to say what exactly she was capable of. Her glare wasn't angry, at least. When their eyes met, she came over to him.

"Warden", she said neutrally.

"Morrigan." He tried not to sound as tired as he felt, but it was not easy. "Not angry any more?"

She moaned. "You are being childish again. If I were angry, you would not have to ask. I was simply disagreeing."

"Yes, you seem to do a lot of that lately."

"What of it? Would you have me nod at your every whim instead? You must know that will never happen."

He did know that.

"So you think I'm a bad leader?"

"Again, you misjudge. If I thought your leadership skills were poor, would I be following you?"

"Well, your mother practically ordered you to."

"Ah yes, my mother…" Morrigan sat down where Zevran had sat before. It was a rare sight; she was mostly standing our walking, as if her long legs needed constant exercise to prevent them from folding. Something in her tone made Skye listen up.

"What's up with her, anyway?", he asked casually.

Morrigan giggled, which was much more rare even than her sitting. "'tis an excellent question."

"Is she really your mother? She seems so old…"

"She did not give birth to me, if that is what you mean. She is however the closest to a parent I have ever known."

"Sorry", Skye said automatically.

"Do not be ridiculous. She taught me to survive better than any mother could have. I was lucky."

"If you say so."

"Oh come now. That's all you have to say?" She was obviously disappointed.

He sighed. It was one of these painful conversations where he knew he couldn't be honest. Morrigan was still a mystery to him most of the time, but even if she acted all trusty now, he knew she was holding back her inner self, just like he did. He wished to tell her about his doubts, his pain, his fears, just to establish some kind of real connection, to feel like a real human being again. But he could not. There was only one thing Morrigan respected, and that thing was strength. So he tried to be strong.

"You need to sleep", she suddenly said. "I can see how exhausted your body is."

Perhaps trying to be strong wasn't working so well. He just shrugged.

"I can help you with that."

Skye looked up into her eyes, confused. What was she talking about?

"How?"

She smiled a little smile of superiority. "'tis most simple, really. Let me cast a sleep spell on you. You will not wake up before you have slept at least some hours or unless I wake you."

"You want to use magic on me."

"Of course."

He felt an instinctive dislike towards the idea. "Will I still dream?"

"I suppose so, but you will stay asleep."

"No. You would lock me up in nightmares." He shook his head to further demonstrate his unwillingness.

Morrigan frowned. "Are you afraid of your dreams?" Her disbelief appeared to be honest, at least. He certainly _was _afraid of his nightmares. But he wasn't sure how to tell her, especially since it was indeed a little silly. Alistair seemed to have no trouble getting enough sleep to be fit during the day. On the other hand, having a nightmare was one thing, but not being able to wake up while having it was another.

"Well, no." He usually refrained from lying, but it always surprised him how easy it was done. There was no way of knowing whether she believed him or not, of course. The situation was getting awkward, and he really wanted to be alone. "I just don't want you to put a spell on me, get it?"

Her eyes rolled. "Fine."

When Morrigan finally excused herself, Skye's head was so heavy that he believed it would fall down any minute, and his foot was beginning to hurt again, so he carried himself into one of the guest rooms of the tavern and let his armored body sink on a dirty mat. He barely had enough time to enjoy the sensation of letting his strained muscles rest before he fell asleep, circling down through a dark haze into the crimson realms of the fade.

It was Zevran who woke him up. The elf cowered near his bedside and tagged at his shoulder, hesitatingly. For a short moment, before he could orientate himself, Skye just looked up into two incredibly brown eyes, felt the erection in his pants, and smiled. He was orbiting through a universe of sleepiness, where everything made sense, because nothing had to make sense, and all was one and the same. It was only when the beautiful face above him distorted itself into a mask of worry that he found his way back into reality, and the universe shattered into parts, with all pieces falling back into their place and painting the familiar picture of a disconnected, broken world. It hit him hard, and his smile vanished instantly. At least, he didn't remember any haunting nightmares.

His dog, sitting faithfully by his feet, growled as he eyed Zevran suspiciously.

Abruptly, Skye shook off the hand at his shoulders and brought himself into a sitting position. "What's going on?"

"Night is falling. The men say it will begin soon." The elf spoke quietly but intensely, as if they were having some clandestine meeting. "We should get ready."

"Yes." As adrenaline was rushing through veins, heating muscles and speeding up blood, all sleepiness quickly receded. It was time for battle. Skye checked his armor and his swords and got up, his erection aching in the tightness. Luckily his sturdy clothing made it impossible for Zevran to see anything. He still felt the need to shoot an impatient glance at the elf.

"What are you waiting for?"

"I was wondering…"

In this very moment, Alistair rushed through the door, his face red and his breath panting. He stared, frowned, pouted. "Oh, you're already up." Piercing Zevran with his look, he added: "Woke him, did you? I guess we're lucky he didn't fall into a dagger somehow."

Skye realized that it had been another easy opportunity for the elf to assassinate him. Or it could have been, where it not for the ever-watchful mabari guarding him.

"Ah, I can assure you, whatever plans I might have for a sleeping Warden do not involve daggers of any kind." Apparently Zevran was back to his smooth-talking self.

"It's alright, really", Skye told Alistair. "I'm being watched over." He pointed at the dog, who in return barked cheerfully.

Alistair clearly wasn't happy, but he let the issue go with a shrug. "Well you should come out soon. We are about to be attacked by walking corpses, you know." He left, hand at his sword hilt.

A few seconds of silence followed, but Skye found himself unable to not look into Zevran's brown eyes again. The elf suddenly smiled. "So you lied", he said. "You do sleep after all."

"Can't dispute that. Glad you didn't try anything."

"Oh well. Your dog looked like he wanted to bite off my arm just for trying to wake you."

"Actually, he's trained to go right for the throat."

"I better be careful then." Zevran hesitated for only a second before he added: "Unless there is something you would have liked me to try?" His smile was getting bigger.

"Just get out!" Skye barked, needing all of his concentration and strength of mind to prevent his own lips from smiling back, and to ignore his still hard cock.

"I need my daggers", the elf explained quickly, now in a sinister tone. "Surely you do not expect me to go out there unarmed, fighting dead things with my fist?"

"I see." Skye pulled out Zevran's two finest blades, which he had been carrying by himself. "Will these do? The others are in a backpack somewhere."

"They will suffice. Thank you."

* * *

><p>The attack started only a while after nightfall. When the sun was completely swallowed by the unknown mists at the horizon, and darkness spread to all corners of the sky, it was like the world had never seen light. Something unnatural was coming. Something perverted, something twisted.<p>

Skye stood in row with his companions, facing the approaching horrors, and banned all fears from his mind. Stillness and concentration engulfed his whole self.

The walking dead where, in a way, the living past. Bodies of men and women alike, most of them former inhabitants of Redcliffe, flooded down form the castle, like the memories of long lost times. But they were not remembering. They were merely inanimate matter, controlled by a vengeful or mindless spirit of the fade. Their legs carried them forward, but the movements did not stem from muscle. It was nothing more than vile magic.

The first waves of undead fell victim to a hail of burning arrows, their dry bodies catching fire in a heartbeat. Ammunition was scarce, however, and soon the night was filled with the sounds of blades cutting through rotten flesh. Death and life clashed with the force of a hundred arms, until they became the same. Utter madness and mayhem reigned. The dead were not easily killed.

As the battle waged, it became apparent that, despite the slowness of their stiff-bodied enemies, Redcliffe's militia was losing ground. Skye tried to keep his own group close together, fighting as a cohesive unit, but soon they were encircled and cut off from the rest. The hordes of walking corpses streaming down the hill seemed endless.

Tirelessly swinging swords, cutting off limbs and heads, the commander in him knew he had to act.

"We need to get back to the village centre!", he yelled. An undead creature in front of him, it's face nothing more than a skull with rests of decaying flesh clinging to it, attempted to capture him in a deadly embrace. He rammed a sword into it's chest and delivered a powerful kick, sending the horrible thing backwards.

"And how do you suggest we do that?" Alistair, fighting at his side.

Skye hastily provided his orders. The plan was for Morrigan, whom he had told earlier to save her valuable strengths, to unleash a powerful wave of fire to their side, where more and more dead were massing into a single bulb. Alistair would then use the opportunity to shield-charge through the frontal enemy line, thus creating a breach for the others to follow through.

"Now!", Skye commanded.

Fire gleamed, and with a loud roar bathed the walking bodies in searing brightness. Intense heat swept through the nightly air. The flames reached out to all directions, but Skye and the others were already moving. Alistair simply ran over the undead standing in their way, making excellent use of his heavy armor.

The way to the village square, where the militia were fighting desperately, was now free, if only for a moment. Skye pushed the others forward, intent on securing his companions before himself. He turned around to see if his dog was still behind, but all he could see was a dead man's grin. Then he was knocked down, and one second later a corpse sat on his chest. Bony fingers held down his arms with surprising strength. He struggled wildly, but was in this position hindered by is own armor. A triumphant skullface descended, the rotten teeth ready to bite, but Skye managed to roll over to the side, using his strong legs as a lever. The grip around his wrists loosened. Now being on top of the undead creature, he simply bashed It's skull with the pommel of his sword. The bones cracked with a satisfying noise.

"Skye, _roll aside_!" Zevran's voice.

Unthinking, he obeyed and rolled over again, just to see a cleaver slam down on the spot where he had been lying. A dagger then flew through the air above him and struck the offending being with the cleaver, which looked very much like the corpse of a butcher, between the empty eyes.

Skye quickly got to his feet and ran towards the village square, Zevran at his side. Apparently the elf was the only one who had noticed his calamity; the others were already fighting alongside the militia, just as he had ordered them to.

The remaining undead in the village were soon disposed off, but Morrigan's fire had by now faded, and more were coming down the cliffs. Skye ordered everyone in the village into a closed formation, standing tightly together. They waited for the enemy with raised weapons. When the lines clashed again, it was this time in the light of the chantry's fires. Leliana climbed up the stairs to it's doors and sang a song of victory. Her clear voice pierced through the noise of battle and filled the men's hearts with hope and resolve.

Skye knew they had won long before the last corpse was brought back to it's usual state of stillness.

When the sun rose, the dead were no longer walking.

In the light of a new day, many times the happenings of the night would seem less terrifying; surprisingly, it was no different this time. The village's people were, although mourning their losses, mostly cheering and celebrating. When the mother of the chantry had announced a ceremony in honor the fallen and those who had saved Redcliffe, namely himself and his companions, Skye had very quickly removed himself from the crowds. Ordering Alistair and Leliana to take part in the celebration at his stead, he silently went to the tavern. He didn't want to begrudge the villagers for their joy, but if he had to stand their vows of gratefulness and the sermons of the mother, he surely would. No matter what these people felt or believed, his own fight, Ferelden's fight, was far from over. In fact, stopping an undead horde had brought him no closer to his own goals. He also hadn't decided to help them out of selflessness. The last thing he wanted to hear were praises of his heroic deeds. Even if he had felt like a hero it would still have made him sick.

He was already planning the next step, which was getting into the castle and freeing the arl from the demon's grasp. Alistair had convinced him that Eamon would be an invaluable ally against Loghain, and his knights an invaluable force against the Blight. If he was still alive, that was.

As Skye entered the tavern he spotted Zevran sitting by the bar and drinking ale. The elf didn't seem to notice him, so he stood there for a while and pondered. There was a question in his mind that he couldn't quite find an answer to. It pertained the fact that last night, a cleaver had missed Skye by only an inch, and a certain person that was responsible for this fact.

Slowly he stepped to the bar, grabbed himself a stool and sat down. Outside he could hear the crowd cheering.

Zevran looked up from his ale and smiled. "Ah, my Warden."

Skye remembered that last night, the elf had called him by his name for the first time. A peculiar feeling rose in his heart when he thought about that. For reasons unbeknownst to him, he wanted to hear that again. "Yes", he just said.

"Not in the mood for celebrations?"

"You got it. I would have expected you to be right in the middle however."

Zevran laughed lightly. "It's true. I have been a valuable asset to many a party back in Antiva."

"But?"

"Well, those were parties of a different kind."

"I can imagine." Skye signalled the tavern owner to bring him an ale, who nodded, but not at all happily.

For some time, they just sat there in quiet, nipping at their drinks, sometimes looking over to each other, but then turning away again. It was a deep, bottomless silence, and Skye soon felt the dire need to say something. It was rather irritating to him that Zevran didn't appear to expect anything, though. He cleared his throat, which was much louder than anticipated.

"Thank you. For last night, you know."

Now the elf eyed him curiously. "You're quite welcome." A warm smile. In this moment, Zevran seemed so entirely honest and truthful, so sincere, that Skye felt a sting in his heart. Suddenly there was the desire to apologize for the harsh words from yesterday. But he couldn't find the words. Falling into silence once again, he concentrated on his ale, drowning his gaze in the foamy, pale-green liquid that tasted like bad soap.

Something pushed him gently into the side. It was his mabari. As he reached out to pet his trusted friend, Skye once again realized the painful isolation he suffered. He wondered how long his journey would take, how long it would be until he could stop making decisions for everyone. He wondered how long he could go on without opening up to someone.

Looking to Zevran again, it hit him how painfully attractive the elf really was. A gravitational pull of some sorts was constantly drawing his attention towards the shady assassin, pushing him into idle musings, confusing his senses. It made him angry. Why did he not have the power of will to just disregard his beauty and grace, and see him for the killer he was? He should have been stronger than this. He should have been able to keep a cool head, to stay in control of his lower desires.

Sickened by himself, Skye left the room without another word, running away from his inner world.

* * *

><p>The castle of Redcliffe was accessible through a secret tunnel, which conveniently lead from the village's mill right into the courtyard. It was a fine testament to the fickleness of the feudal system; few castles would ever be built without a hidden escape route of underground passages. Normally they would have been used to get individuals of importance, namely the castle's lord and his family, out of the keep in times of trouble. Skye remembered only to well his own flight from Highever Castle, using a similar tunnel, Duncan at his side. This time, the way was blocked by the occasional undead, but other than that held no significant challenges.<p>

Bann Teagan had shown them the tunnel entrance in an act of ridiculous clandestineness, as if he had been about to lift one of the greatest secrets of all time. Skye could probably have found it on his own in a heartbeat, but had refrained from commenting. He really hadn't talked much at all since the battle at night.

As the group was crouching through the narrow, moist passage, disposing of swollen, festering creatures which everyone tried not to look at to closely, he almost constantly felt the need to check if Zevran was, perhaps, staring at the back of his head again. But since he had no clue as to whether he would actually have preferred the elf not to stare, he somehow managed to not check, not even one time. He did however listen very carefully for all chatter behind him; apparently Leliana and Alistair were the only ones commenting on the situation, while Zevran was astonishingly silent.

Before finally entering the inner castle, Skye listened into himself, trying to find a pool of calm that he could get a hold of. But it was all a hazardous haze, a mess of innumerable different tides of emotion, mixed into the one final feeling of disconnectedness. The only thing that stood out was, as always, his need, so he focused on that. His need for things to be better. Hopefully, it would be enough to divert the demon's attempts at manipulating him.

Bann Teagan was probably already inside. A while after the ceremony in the village had ended, the arl's wife had miraculously appeared, supposedly having been sent by the demon, which was operating from the body of her son, to get Teagan inside the castle. The whole affair was blatantly fishy, but then the woman had seemed to be at least in possession of her own mind, which unfortunately didn't mean that she was anything less than paranoid, highly hysterical and utterly annoying. Still, Teagan had quickly decided to go with her, leaving it to the Wardens to infiltrate the keep unseen.

As Skye pushed open the mighty portal and entered the main hall, the world subtly shifted, infusing him with a sense of surreality.

"Ah, the spoilsport!" Connor, the demon-boy, greeted him, hellish flames flickering in his eyes. "Has it come to further disrupt my games?" The child's voice was distorted into realms beyond the acoustical.

"Please, Connor, stop this!" Isolde, the arlessa, was barely able to articulate herself, her whole body trembling.

"Quiet!", Conner thundered.

Skye noticed that Teagan was sitting on the floor beside his nephew, drooling and cackling, clearly out of his mind. He tightly grabbed his swords and stepped up to the demon.

"Yes, I'm going to end this."

"Will you now? But that is no fun!"

Speaking to the demon was, in many ways, not a matter of words or voices. Skye could feel the omnipresent mind of the dangerous entity stretching and grasping, clawing at his own thoughts. A battle was fought somewhere in his head, where foreign powers invaded his innermost privacy. Suddenly he found it hard to speak, was caught up in a horridly perverted hide-and-seek game deep inside himself, where he tried to hide his sanity. The entire hall was filled with a vibrating sound, and everyone stood remarkably still as they lost control of their own limbs.

"Connor, I beg you, don't…"

"Silence!" The boy hissed at his mother, who staggered as if he had hit her. For some reason, Isolde did not seem to be under the demon's ban even now, but her poorly grounded temper made her useless. The woman was shaking with uncontrollable sobs.

Skye however felt the unearthly grasp at his will loosen as he slowly won back supremacy over his self. There was simply no way he would succumb to some usurper-mind from the fade. There was too much at stake, too much to be lost. He could not fail…

"Now, where going to have fun!", Connor cheered.

Teagan, the fool, struggled to his feet, hopped over to Isolde, his face a grotesque mask of obscenity, and clumsily grabbed her breasts. "Fuuuun! Fuuun!", he howled. Shrieking, the arlessa attempted to get away from the madman.

"You do not have power over _me_, demon!" Morrigan stepped up at Skye's side, swinging her staff threateningly. Her amber eyes glowed with fury.

"You deny my pleasure? I will destroy you, then!" The boy jumped up and down, clapping his hands. "Even more fun for me!"

The castle guards, former lifeless puppets, standing alongside the walls, began to move. They unsheathed their swords and closed in on Morrigan with strangely mechanic moves, while Teagan happily tried to undress the screaming Isolde's bosom in a far corner of the hall. Skye watched the scene with disgust and anger. All of his companions, save for Morrigan, were completely paralysed, but he finally broke free.

"Enough!", he bellowed.

Both swords ready, he rushed into the nearest guard, while the witch quickly dispatched another with a small lighting bolt. In only minute's time, they had overwhelmed most of the enemies, but Skye hesitated to kill any of them. They were not themselves, after all, so he instead sent them reeling with painful but not fatal blows, eliminating them as a threat.

At the same time, the battle in his mind continued. The demon's grasp was now unsteady, attacking from all directions at once, but it was only a lie. As Skye shielded himself with the bare truth of his need, the unwavering resolve that he found only in desperation, he felt the spirit tumble. In corners of his counsciuosness that he hadn't known of before, a fire was burning, consuming the wicked and evil force which flickered around him.

Connor, observing how things turned against him, fell to his knees and struggled with himself.

"No! " The demon's anger shook the castle's walls.

And then, the world shifted again. The boy sank together in a pitiful pile. The humming sound that had been singing from the stone of the castle seized. Everyone looked confused and dazed as they awoke from their enforced slumbers.

"What just happened?", Alistair asked.

"Connor!", Isolde cried, slapped the entirely blank Teagan who was still touching her in private places on the cheek, and ran towards her son. But Morrigan intervened.

"Stay clear of him!", she commanded, and as Isolde did not obey, slammed her staff into the ground, unleashing a wave of force which knocked the arlessa down. "He still harbors a demon."

"Please!" Isolde's begging, drenched in her silky orlesian accent, was heartrending, but also straining to the ear. "Please! You have to help him! He's my son, it's not his fault!"

She continued to cry and beg relentlessly, but Skye tried to ignore her, shooting Morrigan inquiring glances. "The demon is not defeated?"

She smiled sourly. "You have not even encountered the demon itself yet. We have only freed this place of it's dominion, for now. But it will come back soon, I am certain."

"Maker, what a horror", Teagan whispered. He apparently had gathered himself enough to see clear again and was now trying to accommodate Isolde, who futilely pushed him away. Connor appeared to be sleeping and didn't respond to his mother's caresses.

Alistair was shifting awkwardly from one foot to another. "What do we do now? Can we speak to Eamon?"

"He is still sleeping. I was up in his room before all.. this happened." Teagan looked ashamed, and finally quit his endeavours to comfort his sister-in-law.

"The demon must be confronted before the castle can be entirely free from it's grip", Morrigan explained impatiently, as if everybody should know this. "It would be easiest to do it now. The spirit will try to defend it's host, but it is weak here. Simply kill the boy."

When she heard the word _kill_, Isolde burst out into a frenetic howl, piercing ears with unbearable sharpness. "Don't hurt him, don't hurt him, pleaaaase!"

Skye saw a serious headache come his way. "Are there other ways?"

Morrigan shrugged. "A mage can enter the fade it slay the demon there. The boy would then be free."

"Oh, good!" Alistair sounded almost hysterical. "But that would mean you have to do it, right? And that's of course to much tom ask, so why not just kill the innocent child! I can't believe you!"

The bickering continued for quite a while, with Isolde's sobs in the background. Morrigan explained that the assistance of the circle would be needed for the ritual that could send her into the fade, Alistair argued that they were headed there anyway, sooner or later. Sten didn't understand what the fuss was about; in his eyes, the child was already sentenced to death, because the Qun clearly demanded that. Leliana felt sorry for Connor and wanted to help him in any way possible. Yes, they all had their positions, fortified themselves behind a wall of righteousness or logic and were in the end blind to the implications. It was astounding how easily they could access a seemingly unending supply of morals and rules, of rights and wrongs. None of them even had to think about it.

Skye knew what was coming, and already he felt all eyes in the room on him. It was silent now. Everyone had given their pleas, and where waiting for his judgement.

He felt weak. The ground beneath his feet was wobbly. His head was thick and dense, filled with the slime of an ordeal always reappearing. How was he to know which was the lesser evil? He could sentence a little boy to death, thus saving the lives of everyone in the village, or he could travel to the tower of magi first and seek out help to save the boy, but there was no way of knowing what the demon would do in the meantime. What if he came back and the village was empty, everyone dead? How was that a decision he was supposed to make?

As he looked around the hall, all he wanted was to hold on to someone. His stomach was cramped together in little knots. He hated, absolutely hated the loneliness of these moments. It was like everyone else was just an idea, a possibility, while he was the only thing definitive. He wanted to reach out, wanted someone to hold him. But he was in a little sphere of his own. A universe that consisted of only eyes that stared at him expectantly.

And then he met Zevran's gaze. No expectations there. Just truthfulness, and then uncountable layers of mystery.

As something loosened in his heart, Skye knew he would not kill a boy, not while there was a chance that this boy could be saved. He would not, because in the event that he was, against all indications, not alone in his universe, he would not be able to live with himself if he had allowed this universe to be anything less than it could be.


End file.
